Royally Matched(68)

“I’ve been tested; you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

I turn on my side so I can see her eyes. “What are you thinking right now?”

“It’s the wrong time of my cycle for a baby. But, I read once that there’s a word for people who only use the rhythm method for birth control.”

“What’s the word?’

“Parents.” Sarah grins.

I chuckle, then blow out a breath and look back at the ceiling. “I would be okay if you were pregnant. I mean . . . it wouldn’t be ideal in the grand scheme of things, my grandmother would shit a brick and it would make the ridiculousness that can be my life even more chaotic. But I would take care of you. And I would be all right with it . . . happy, excited even. Is that insane?”

She takes her time thinking about it. “If it is, then we’re both certifiable, because that about sums up my thoughts too.”

Sarah snuggles in closer, drawing pictures on my chest with her fingertip, and I like how she feels right up against me. “I think this is how it is when you’re in love. And nothing seems too big or too scary, because you know whatever happens, you won’t be facing it alone.”

A few moments later, I leave the bed and run a cloth under the warm water at the bathroom sink. Then I come back and gently wipe the pink-tinged fluid from between Sarah’s legs. A muted blush rises on her cheeks as I tend to her, but she doesn’t object. After doing the same to myself, I slip back under the covers and wrap my arm around her.

I kiss the top of her head and comb my fingers through her hair as she drifts off, her breath coming in steady, tickling brushes against my neck. But I don’t fall asleep. I stay up, watching her—because she’s so beautiful, and good. My darling girl.

I’ve never had someone who was just mine, body and soul—mine to protect and hold and love. And that’s what Sarah is . . . she belongs to me now. We belong to each other.





I dress early the next morning so I can speak to Vanessa, and tell her that I’m out. It takes me a bit of time to actually go, because Sarah’s lips are terribly distracting. I can’t seem to stop kissing them.

But, eventually, I force my feet to walk out the door.

And less than five minutes later I march back through it—unbuttoning my trousers and taking my clothes off as I go. It’s important to be efficient.

“What’s happening?” Sarah asks.

“Get naked, right now. It’s food poisoning.”

“What?”

“They all have it—something from the food service table last night. Everyone who ate there has it.”

And everyone ate there—the producers, the crew, Penny, Laura, and Cordelia . . . everyone except Sarah and I.

I slip out of my shoes, and my trousers and pants hit the floor. My cock juts out, firm and ready and swaying a bit as I move, like it’s saying hello.

“Why do you still have clothes on?” I move up to her. “Here, I’ll help you.” Then I’m undressing and kissing her. “We have hours, probably days.” I lean over her and kiss her longer, deeper, thrusting into her pretty mouth the way I’m going to be thrusting into her very soon.

“We can do this for days, Sarah.”

I unbutton my shirt quickly, but when I try to tug my arms out of the sleeves, my hands get stuck in the cuffs. So I yank harder, sending the buttons flying. Sarah laughs at me, at my eagerness. But I’m more than eager—I’m borderline desperate, with this insatiable craving to touch her, to fuck her, to hold her, to be near her. It’s out of control in the best way, like she’s the fabled good drug—a positive addiction—and I’ll do anything for a fix.

Shirtless and smiling, I lift her up and set her on the dresser gently, feeling like I want to be anything but. She’s probably tender from yesterday and God, I’m like an animal, wanting to rub and rut with her, even if we both starve to death.

“Tell me to slow down.” I step between her legs and hold her face in my hands. I lean down and kiss her in quick, needy brushes—sipping at her lips. “Tell me to stop, Sarah.”

Her brows come together and her head shakes, like the words make no sense. “No, please.” She reaches around my waist and locks her legs about my hips, drawing me close and hot against her. “Don’t ever stop, Henry.”





SARAH HAS A TINY RUSSET freckle an inch below her navel. She has two on the inside of her elbow, and a small dotted constellation across her left shoulder blade. A thin, colorless scar traces her right shin bone, as long as my index finger, and another marks the outside of her left thigh, beneath her hip. I note every mark, each perfect imperfection, while we hide away in our room and I explore every inch of her skin. Hours later, there’s not a place I haven’t kissed or licked or nuzzled and caressed.